The early morning is my favorite part of the day. Don't get me wrong, I can appreciate a summer afternoon or a really exciting late night; but the morning is by far the best.

I was coming home from a friend's house yesterday morning about 7am. The air was that brisk, clean temperature; maybe 50 degrees. Windows down, sunroof open, just getting the wind in my hair.

There's hardly anyone out on the roads at that time of the morning on a Saturday. It's almost like you get to enjoy the city before it's swarmed by humanity. Before the intersections are chocked with cars, honking horns and trudging down the streets like a herd of braying cattle.

The sunshine on a cloudless morning is amazing too. It just sprays out onto the world, it almost makes a sound. The low angle at that hour of the day also allows the light to come crashing through windows and doors, the brightness splashing into the corners of houses that only see sunlight once a day.

Posted by: shank at 09:39 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Last night, at like 3:30am, my stomach started killing me. It was that gassy type of pain, really sharp and burning, right about your navel. God, I thought that fucking critter from Alien was going to pop out of my stomach.
"Aarrrarraaaa!"
"Jesus, and I thought it was just a 48-hour bug..."
"Argrawr? Raaaawwawrrrr..."
"Sweetheart, will you go get the Raid? I think the strain has mutated..."

Yeah, so there I am, praying for death or explosive diarreah or anything to relieve the stabbing pain in my abdomen; and it happens. I mean, it was the most amazing event of its kind that I've ever been a party to, or even heard of. I floated one of the most amazing air biscuits in the history of air biscuitry. I'm no stranger to farting, as I come from a long and voluminous line of Norweigan farters and burpers. But this thing was amazing. It sounded like 5.1 Dolby Surround, I mean, I could swear someone had plugged a subwoofer jack into my asshole and turned that mother up to '11'.

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEERRRRRRRRP.

The window panes shook in their frames, the bedspread flapped, the touch-lamp on the bedside table went through two three-stage cycles. The fiancee stirs: "Who the fuck is knocking on our door?"
"No one babe; but you just ripped horrendous ass." Evil grin.

Then the stench hit. No, it...swallowed us with the sorce of a tsunami. Smell 'o vision on steroids. Like so much landfill acreage, raw sewage, that sour smell of dead animals, the burning smell of propane, bad eggs, and spoiled bean soup. It was horrible, but totally amazing. I thought the woman was going to cry; I was doing all I could to keep from laughing (it would have given me away).

I woke up this morning feeling like a new man. I think The Fart was just the virus's death rattle. Not nearly deadly, but much more than a rattle; I can assure you that.

Posted by: shank at 05:06 PM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
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I woke up at about 3am covered in sweat. Had to go towel off, then change the damn sheets. The fiancee and I took the soiled sheets off, and she went to go get some more. She came back with a fitted sheet that, ironically, did not fit. Mildly exasperated, she went to fetch another. As it turns out, we own only one set of sheets that fits our bed. Great. So we grabbed a flat sheet and just made do. Talk about a pair of grumpy people.

I got up about 30 minutes ago and made myself a cup of tea. I decided to crush one of my Men's One-A-Day's into it. I don't know why, it just seems bettr than regular old tea. Well, the reason that shit is in pill form is because it tastes horrible. This sucks. When will it end? What if I have the avian flu or something? I'll be the first blogger to blog my death. Stay tuned.

Posted by: shank at 08:38 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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I just threw up last night's buffalo wings. I'd like to mention that Frank's Redhot is actually spicier coming up than it is going down. Halfway through the barfing, my nose got so congested that I could only breathe through my mouth. So there I was barfing and gasping for air. It was quite the scene. My uvula is a swollen, burning mass in the back of my throat, reminding me every time I swallow that existence is pain.

Posted by: shank at 07:49 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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So we have a closet at work; well, it's a small room; that we keep office supplies in. It also houses our refrigerator, coffee maker and associated items, and boxes of...shit I guess. I have no idea what's in them.

In this closet, peculiarly, is a telephone. I'm not talking stored, I'm saying the phone is plugged into the wall and gets a dialtone. Now, I've never seen anyone answer it, or check the voice mailbox; but occasionally the fucker will ring. Of course, me being a curious little monkey, I'm always tempted to answer it:
"Hello, you've reached the closet."
Or maybe:
"This is shank, I'm in the closet. How may I help you?"
I've asked people if it used to be someone's office or something; but the consensus is that the space has in fact been utilized as a closet since the beginning of time. I mean, if it's always been a closet, it seems odd for a phone to be there; hence the intense curiosity about who may be on the other side of the ring.

Maybe it's God; and he just wants to say he loves us. Maybe it's the Commissioner, looking for Batman but accidentally transposing a few numbers. Maybe it's the internal complaint line. Me personally? I think it's a portal in and out of the Matrix. One day, when I have my affairs in order and I'm ready to take the red pill, I will answer the phone and bravely plunge myself into the truth. I hope I get to be The One.

Posted by: shank at 04:24 PM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
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I don't get personal too often, but I'm going to now.
(I shortened this up, because it was more than I wanted to share)

All you motherfuckers that gave my family shit over the years; can suck my dick. Look where we're at now, and look at you; you fucking broken, dispicable, shams of families. Fucking facades is all you are. And you had the gall to tell us we were doing shit wrong!

We did it our own way, with honesty, and arguing, and ultimately LOVE. You fuckers spent your time and money on keeping up appearances and coddling delinquents. Fuck you. I'm so glad that I can now; freely and without rebuke say to you "Fuck. Off." It's the American dream bitches, and I'm living it.

Posted by: shank at 12:55 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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Don't you hate it when people bother you about shit that doesn't matter? My mom sends me this little notice saying maybe I should be taking in more iodine. It's good for my thyroid.

Firstly, my thyroid is fine. I'll start worrying when I get a goiter or something. Is that even what happens; or is that the pituitary? See - it doesn't matter, because if I woke up without the fucker tomorrow, I wouldn't even know.

Secondly, I've had plenty of iodine in my day. I'm old enough that when I was a kid, people put iodine drops on your fucking scrapes. God, it was like being branded. The pain from iodine was all the encouragement a kid needed to wear skateboard pads. Furthermore, I used it to sterilize water on many a long-term backpacking trip. You'd put a few drops in a bottle of stream water, let it sit in the sun for a few hours, and wa-la; no micro-organisms would be waiting in your water to give you a two-week long bout of the shits. The downside to that is that iodine tastes like 80 different kinds of ass.

Thirdly, before iodine deficiency rots my thyroid away (to some unknown/not-cared-about consequence) I'm sure I will have drank my liver into oblivion, smoked my lungs blacker than tar, been hit by a drunk driver, had my body devoured by some form of cancer, been shot by a lunatic, and maybe - maybe - eaten by a shark. I don't know what the top ten killers in America are, but I bet none of them is a crapped out thyroid.

So Ma, I appreciate the concern, but my dick is going to fall off from beating it too much before my thyroid shits out because I'm not eating enough iodine.

Shank out.

Posted by: shank at 08:02 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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Yesterday, while sitting through a meeting that I can only describe as a boredom marathon, I had an epiphany. more...

Posted by: shank at 04:23 PM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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There was a time not long ago that I could spit out posts like nobodyÂ’s business. I donÂ’t mean links or bullshit posts where you talk about having nothing. I mean posts that had a beginning, middle and an end. That had pacing and theme. Posts that told a story.

It would seem theyÂ’ve dried up. Maybe IÂ’ve gone to the well too many times. Maybe itÂ’s the fact that most of my stuff revolved around my interaction with other people, which I have been forced to limit, in order to preserve my sanity.

Or maybe my luck has improved. I haven’t scalded the shit out of my mouth with hot napalm-like pizza lately, I haven’t shit myself in a long time…no wonder I’ve got nothing. Today I’ve got a headache. There’s nothing funny about a headache. I’ve got nothing to play off of. It’s not like cramps and the running shits—that’s good stuff. My whole schtick revolved around embarrassment and I’ve had nothing since the underwear incident.

I miss my old ways. Once I was driving down the freeway and I noticed a wasp was in the car. Now IÂ’m a man and all, but there was a fucking wasp in the car. So I rolled down a window to blow it out, but instead of it going out it blew over to my side, and before I knew it the bastard was on my neck and I was swerving all over the road (in a man-like, controlled manner). There was a lot of swatting and wriggling on my part and IÂ’m pretty sure I was screaming pretty loud too before I got the bastard out.

You see, thatÂ’s funny, even though it was emotionally stressful at the time. As far as I was concerned I was fighting a fucking dragonÂ…itÂ’s all the same to me. One may be smaller but theyÂ’re both trying to kill me.

And speaking of stress, someone needs to explain what pleasure is derived from going to haunted houses/scare fests around Halloween. IÂ’ve done my share as a younger man and I failed to see the charm. You pay money to walk around in the dark while a bunch of assholes wait until youÂ’re most vulnerable and then jump out screaming and scare the living shit out of you. I donÂ’t find that type of anticipation pleasurable. I find it fucking stressful. IÂ’m a nervous wreck after that shit. I also donÂ’t like people yelling in my ear. My natural tendency is to attack someone that yells in my ear, and that tendency is hard to restrain. And often is not. Fear is the mother of violence. If you scare me, I will usually attack you.

I have no idea how to end this travesty. MordieuxÂ…what has become of me?

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 01:51 PM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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I never tire of reading this post.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 11:32 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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This is your opportunity to complain about the new design and any problems you're having seeing things.

One thing I'll tweak more later is the font situation, but not until I know that everybody can read the blog title and description up there at the top.

Also, Shank and Paul need to decide what they want in the sidebars...I'll make any changes or additions you want.

Posted by: Jennifer at 10:51 PM | Comments (16) | Add Comment
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1 I like the creepy hallway look. But I liked the blackish-grayish thing, too... I'm still not a fan of the "Remember personal info" button NOT remembering my personal info. That's a lot of shit to type in every time I want to comment.

Posted by: jenE at October 13, 2005 12:49 AM (K0Tmz)

2 This looks awesome, I told you she was the queen of MT! Good job Jen!

Posted by: Oorgo at October 13, 2005 01:41 AM (1JIkb)

3 JenE - it remembers my shit? Do you have your security settings on high or something? Jen - the site looks fantastic. Does that 'Search' thing really work? That's pretty cool. Thanks for pimping my ride.

Posted by: shank at October 13, 2005 07:50 AM (+H1yK)

4 Looks great Jen! I'm using IE and I can see everything fine.

Posted by: Jackie at October 13, 2005 08:01 AM (iErNK)

5 I'm using Firefox and it looks great to me. Your talent knows no bounds...

Posted by: Paul at October 13, 2005 08:06 AM (s/IK0)

6 By the way, has anyone noticed that much like at work, I successfully diverted all attention away from my not producing and effectively started a fire drill in someone elses department? It's the secret of my success. I should really write a book.

Posted by: Paul at October 13, 2005 08:08 AM (s/IK0)

7 Speaking of stuff in the sidebars Jen. Can we get a photo of a hot babe in the sidebar? I really like that girl in the blue bikini from the Say Anything Blog ads at Jeff Goldstein's place. Hellooooooo nurse!

Posted by: shank at October 13, 2005 09:26 AM (+H1yK)

8 Yes, Nurse Ratchet would be a fine addition.

Posted by: Jackie at October 13, 2005 10:11 AM (iErNK)

9 Shank, you had the Search button on the old template. I didn't add it.

Posted by: Jennifer at October 13, 2005 11:25 AM (uDrBj)

10 No, my security settings aren't on high. It didn't remember my information before the re-vamp, either. You may remember me bitching about it before. That's okay, though; your little blog is nice enough that I'll continue to read and endlessly pump my information into these damned text boxes. P.S. The overhead lights give this a very Dickensian "mental hospital" feel... I like it.

Posted by: jenE at October 13, 2005 12:13 PM (K0Tmz)

11 Thanks for you support.

Posted by: shank at October 13, 2005 12:41 PM (+H1yK)

12 I've gotta say, I'm getting quite proficient at typing all that crap in! I've been told I'm supportive like a good jock strap...cradle and cup the jewels, but never squeeze them.

Posted by: jenE at October 13, 2005 01:52 PM (K0Tmz)

13 Paul, if you did decide to write a book, you'd divert attention again as the deadline approached... ya freakin' slacker, I've got you figured out now.

Posted by: Ted at October 13, 2005 05:08 PM (+OVgL)

14 What a manipulator eh? And we all fell for it.... 33 comments worth of it.

Posted by: Oorgo at October 13, 2005 06:34 PM (lM0qs)

15 I like it a lot! It suits the blog authors' personalities: slow and creepy. Nah, it looks great, Jen.

Posted by: De at October 14, 2005 11:18 AM (IdVP4)

16 Light's too damn bright. And it don't remember me, neither.

Posted by: Bane at October 14, 2005 11:30 PM (JO5DH)

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I spend lots of time at work on the Internet.
I left early today, and I'm not going back tomorrow.
People tell me I do good work, and I don't know why. It's easy.
I'm drinking now, I might stay and close the bar tonight. Tomorrow I sleep like the dead.
I don't like most people. They tend to suck the life out of me.
That's why I like the web. I can talk when I want.
I mainly posted this because I like symmetry.


It's like poetry for people who can't read. No. No it's not. That is stupid. It's like...fuckit; I'll stick to poetry for blind people. Just take it at face value and roll with it. Has anyone seen Bill? He's not really dead is he?

Posted by: shank at 06:10 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Saturday morning I took the kid to play in her first soccer game. It was much worse than I ever imagined.

First of all sheÂ’s only five. Neither she nor I had any great expectations. I never cared for the sport, personally. The kid has no clue about the game at all, but insisted she join a team anyway. SheÂ’s a social creature.

So we get there and itÂ’s worse than I expect by a long shot. Every caricature of a sports parent that you could ever imagine was incarnated on this field. So I tell the kid to go have fun and I sit down away from the other parents. As the kids are warming up I notice that most parents arenÂ’t speaking English. Portuguese and Spanish are dominant. Some of the fathers are kicking a ball around off to the side, completely overdoing it, hamming it up and causing a general scene by yelping loudly in their native tongues. They are all grossly overweight and out of shape. Within minutes it comes to a grinding halt, with one guy holding his hand over his heart and panting like a dog. Adios Mio! This guyÂ’s going to die here in the grass, I thought. I donÂ’t have time for this today.

Instead he slowly got up and walked back to the rest of his family and collapsed on a bench. His family consisted of at least nine adults and a passel of poorly-mannered kids of all ages. Their normal speaking voices were deafening. They all yelled at each other for the entire game.

Meanwhile I turned my attention back to my kid. The game was about to start and I was fairly certain she didnÂ’t even know the basic rules of the game. The whistle blows and the game begins. Every player from both teams swarm the ball and it resembles a rugby scrum. No one plays defense. Even the goalies are in the scrum. Eventually the ball squirts out of the clump with a child or two chasing it while the rest of them just stand there watching. Less than a minute in, most of the kids have already had enough. Two of them were crying.

To make a long story short, it works like this. The kids chase the ball in a big clump. If one of them actually manages to kick it, it goes out of bounds. This continues until itÂ’s time to go home, or enough children are crying that they have to call a time out. Within the first ten minutes most of the parents were chasing their kids around the field yelling instructions at them. The coach sees the hopelessness of all this and bans the parents from the field.

Meanwhile, I realize that the fat bastard who thought he was having a heart attack stole my two bottles of water. Now my kid’s got nothing to drink and it’s hot out. I went over to the guy and pointed out his error, but one bottle was already gone and he was drinking out of the other one. As I’m talking to him I hear a great commotion coming from his family. They’re all screaming, “Carlos! Carlos! Carlos!”

The guy I’m talking to dashes off to the sideline along with his giant extended family. On the field there’s a kid that looks a lot older than the others. These kids are supposed to be between three and five years old and this kid looks like he’s ten. He’s dribbling the ball downfield all by himself, the rest of both teams either crying or sitting down on the field. The big kid is approaching the net and there is no goalie in sight. With a flourish the kid kicks the ball into the open goal and throws his hands into the air. Instantly, the giant family of Portuguese people run onto the field and lift the kid up onto their shoulders cheering, “Carlos! Carlos! Carlos!”

It was surreal. The coach, who had had quite enough, was trying to restore order, but it was hopeless. I looked around trying to find my kid and saw her and another little girl sitting in the grass chatting. They were nonplussed.

When the whole ordeal was over and we were walking to our car through the sea of minivans, I asked if she had fun.

“It’s too hot out.”

“I know, Sweetie, but did you like it?”

“I would like it better if it was inside.”

“You don’t want to come anymore?”

“Not really.”

“Well, I don’t blame you. “

As I buckled her into the car I could still hear little CarlosÂ’s family going at it. I looked up just in time to see the fat father kick a soccer ball into the side of someoneÂ’s van.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 08:48 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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We’re currently in the process of assembling a few more guest editions of “How Many Beers?”

If you are selected to play, and you decline, we will be forced to ridicule you mercilessly.

Thanks in advance.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 12:26 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Of all the different symptoms, by far the worst is vomiting. I can keep my sense of humor up during coughing fits, sinus infections, stomach cramps, etc.—Hell, some of my best material has come from having severe diarrhea. But vomiting? That changes everything.

You know itÂ’s coming when your mouth starts to fill with a little extra saliva. A moment later the queasy feeling in your stomach starts. IÂ’m usually in denial when I get the first wave of nausea, but within seconds itÂ’s usually reinforced by stronger waves and in no time the look of panic on your face reads like a headline.

The worst part is that you know there’s nothing you can do about it. It’s a fait de compli. It’s no longer a question of if you’re going to vomit, the question is, “How bad is it going to be?”

And so you find yourself on the bathroom floor, waiting, as if a lethal injection is coming. You are faced with great despair. You look around the bathroom floor noticing every detail. A stray pube off in the corner. Water spots. A dead spider. Meanwhile the waves of nausea increase in frequency and the urgency of the situation becomes almost intolerable. Here it comes. ItÂ’s coming now. You start to spit a little bit of saliva into the bowl. The first contraction comes with little result, but you know you have passed the point of no return. The second contraction is somewhat stronger and you spit again. By the third time youÂ’ve usually got yourself some results. No matter how hard you try not to, you find yourself identifying bits of what has been purged. IÂ’m sorry, itÂ’s a fact.

Meanwhile your mind is absolutely racing. How long can this go on? Is it almost over? And so on.

There are a lot of different styles of vomiting. I pride myself on being a quiet puker. Unless you had your ear against the door and heard the splash youÂ’d never know it was happening. Others have no self control. It sounds like someoneÂ’s fucking murdering them in there. IÂ’m talking about fucking unholy sounds. Some people follow up a good splash with intense moaning until the next ejaculation.

Sometimes the whole ordeal is compounded by well-wishers. “Are you okay in there? Is there anything I can do?”

Yes. Shut the fuck up. IÂ’m on the bathroom floor puking! I feel like itÂ’s my final hour for ChristÂ’s sake, and now I have to talk through the door? IÂ’m trying not to expel my fucking organs in here!

The only thing that could make it worse is when it happens in public. Or while driving. Or standing in line at the DMV. Have you ever had to puke just standing somewhere in public? But enough of this. IÂ’m not one to take things too far.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 09:07 AM | Comments (8) | Add Comment
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Okay, we all know celebrities are pontificating, self-absorbed idiots. But do we really know it? As in, have we yet come to terms within ourselves that the idea that many of these people the public seems to hold on high, are really just as worthless as the rest of the human race? I say no, we haven't because of the fact that Diane Sawyer was asking Barbara Streisand her opinion on global warming and it's effects on diastrous weather.

Now, Diane Sawyer is pretty prime time as far as interviews go. I mean, it would be the assumption that if you're being interviewed by her, she's probably going to be asking you the questions that burn in the minds of millions. Instead, they're talking about the science of weather, we're getting her meterological forecast, big weather expert that she is. Who gives a shit?

Are people really going to cite her professional opinion on the matter? I can see it now:
"...And now to George with the weather. George?"
"According to NOAA, the fifty year cycle for hurricanes is entering a more powerful phase, Bob."
"Well, smack my nuts with a spiked bat George. What ever shall we do?"
"My first thought is not to worry too much buddy, because it will eventually phase back to normal-"
"Oh, praise Jesus, George. I really thought we were fucked."
"-But then I heard world-renowing hurricane expert Barbara Streisand say that this hurricane season is actually the beginning of the Apocalypse Bob, so you can just get back to kissing your ass goodbye."

Not only does her opinion on the subject means absolutely nothing from an authoritative standpoint; but it's not even based in generally accepted fact. But there it is on ABC. She's not the only one though. It seems that every celebrity has made a point out of championing some cause or forwarding some opinion or another. For some reason we just care what celebrities have to say these days, even if it's in reference to something which they know absolutely nothing about.

Posted by: shank at 05:08 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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Tommy Lee, of Motley Crue 'fame', has his own goddamn idiotic reality show now. Yes, after climbing to the apex of his popularity in early 2002 as the man who gave Pamela Anderson hepatitis-c, Tommy Lee is back and wishes to reclaim his crown as the king of complete idiocy.

I know, it's impossible to think that Tommy could ever surpass the entertainment milestone he established when he banged the absolute crap out of his wife on video; but we are once again beholden to this thespian virtuoso. How, you say? How does one outstrip such a legacy? Apparently, by building said reality show around your midlife enrollment in a four year college.

So if you didn't get enough of Tommy's retardedass shenangians back in '86; or back in '99 when he and his wife released their little home video - he's back for your viewing pleasure.

You know, and the thing of it is, his college life seems to suck. I haven't seen any drugs, drunkedness, fights, road trips, keg stands, ramen, crazy parties, hell - the fucker's not even broke; an equal component in my college experience to the others listed here. What a shitty show.

But then again, what could I possibly have expected.

Posted by: shank at 04:06 PM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
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If you drink twelve bottles of Stella Artois and play high stakes poker with these guys you will lose your money. I speak from experience. My old lady did better than I did and I consider myself semi-pro.

It was a distracting game in many ways, what with most of the crowd drinking some nipple drink that looked like a BJ without whipped cream, and the total disregard for my dignity.

At one point I was peeking at my cards when a shrill, deafening siren erupted from the other side of the room. It sounded like a burglar alarm going off.

Binx threw his cards down and started yelping.

“It’s the weather station! It’s the weather station!”

“What the fuck are you talking about? I asked.

Everyone was frozen in their seats wondering if it was some kind of toxic mold detector gone off or if we needed to pull out the gats.

Binx, beside himself with excitement, jumped from his chair and ran across the room. He was staring down at what looked like an answering machine.

“Severe storms! Dime sized hail!”

I realized he was reading off of some kind of ticker tape that the machine was printing. No one had the gumption to actually get up and go see.

“It’s the weather station,” Mrs. Binx said. “He likes to monitor the weather. It almost never goes off…this must be something serious.”

The rest of the crowd seemed nonplussed.

“Shit,” said. Binx. “It’s two counties away.” He seemed genuinely sad about that.

The evening is foggy after that point, but I distinctly remember losing and eating an entire bag of Chex Mix which substituted for my dinner. I seem to remember declining the offer of a bowl and pouring the contents into my mouth.

Sunday morning we had to pick up the kid from the rents. I still hadnÂ’t had a meal so we figured weÂ’d go to out to lunch at a Mexican place I like that serves extreme margaritas. We arrived at the rents to find the kid wearing makeup. The kidÂ’s only five and I realize they like to play dress-up and what not, but she looked like she had black eyes. I also smelled something foul but couldnÂ’t put my finger on it. The look on my face must have said it out loud.

“Oh,” Nanna said, “She really stinks. You’re going to have to drive with the windows open.”

“What?”

“You have to drive with the windows open. She put on perfume. A whole lot of it…all different kinds.”

And right she was. We had to drive with the fucking windows open because the kid smelled like the inside of a termite fumigation tent.

We gave her two baths, used every kind of soap we had, every shampoo. It barely made a dent. This morning when I got in the car to go to work I was overwhelmed by the remaining stench. ThereÂ’s no getting rid of it.

Not only that, but now I think I reek of it because people have been looking at me funny since I walked in the building. I hope these fumes arenÂ’t fucking flammable.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 10:32 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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Sometimes you see that lone person in a bar. They'll be mulling over their drink, or maybe they'll be toying with it seductively, or watching the game, chatting with the barkeep. But we've all seen them, and there are a few that you can mark right off the bat; without ever talking to them, you already know what's going on.

Girl sitting up front, drinking a top shelf apple martini - "I'm spending someone else's money."
Guy sitting up front, drinking a top shelf apple martini - "I'm sucking someone else's dick."
Husky drunk girl next to the tap drinking dollar drafts - "I got kicked out of this bar for knocking a guy's teeth out once."
Husky drunk guy next to the tap drinking dollar drafts - "I stock groceries at Walmart. And my shift starts in half an hour."
Guy, shot of whiskey and a beer, both gone in less than a minute - Probably just robbed a bank.
Gal, surrounded by other gals, drinking Zima or Michelob Ultra - Just turned 21, trying not to ruin her GPA.
Guy, two fingers of single malt on two rocks, not stirring, gently sipping - Needs to take his bottle of Johnny Walker and get a room. This is a bar dammit, not a library.
Gal, cigar, gin and tonic - "If my ex could see me now."
Guy, early fifties, lots of rings, cigar, gin and tonic - "Did I tell you I was All-American back in '76?"

All this talk is making me thirsty. Shank out.

Posted by: shank at 08:34 PM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
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Alright. Everyone here does something weird, maybe even something others would consider revolting. Those dirty little secrets we try to hard to keep from other people. Maybe you lay silent farts in public places, quietly crop-dusting your way across the office lobby. Or maybe you're that sick bastard who whacks it to pictures from National Geographic. Me? I pick my nose. And eat it. Keeps me healthy. Fact of the matter is, I've been eating those little bastards my whole life (well, not all of them) and I'm the healthiest person I know, hands down.

Anyways, what's yours?

Posted by: shank at 10:00 PM | Comments (18) | Add Comment
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